Having propagated successfully only last quinquinnium, I felt like a bit of a change. I’m sure you’ve all been there. Your youngest thousand offspring constantly howling for your attention, other spawners competing to see who gets their original shape back the fastest and comparing their “perfect promogeniture”, while you’re simultaneously made to feel guilty for not immediately resuming your bullshit ratrace career by smug, spawnless crotch-stabilisers.

I fancied a change. A break. A holiday. Call me a bad spawner; bite me.

So I left the kids with their co-spawner, hired Betsy my off-planet transport pod (740 pegasus powered, v16 engine, flies like a banshee bitch mainlining base) and made for the furthest edge of space-time. And, to give me something to do, I made it my mission to find the perfect pizza.

I know, it’s weird, we have pizza too, blabla heard it, guy. You honestly think you’re the only civilization to think up dough, cheese and tomato? Frook, you people. What you don’t know is that where I come from pizza is seriously (see-ree-us-lee) high-end stuff. Like ahi tuna and saffron-infused truffles meets that cow that’s been massaged by nubile Asian chicks and fed only organic golddust or something.

Which means that one of the most coveted jobs in my world is to be a pizza-delivery guy. Or girl. Man, it’s like being Heston, Hugh, Michel and Jamie, but with all the wealth and market-share of Bezos. Which is why it’s my next intended career move.

So I know pizza is from Italy (I flew in for a few nights and Rome is now my totally frookin favourite place of all time), but I heard a place called Dudehattan is the place for a slice. I’m sure I’ll find it.

Because I’m determined to find the best pizza on your frooked-up little planet, before it’s sucked into the shape-shifting vortex from Ephrinilium Camblex in about 5 centuries.

Erp. Forget I said that. First Directive and all that. And YES I know you’re familiar with the concept; where do you think Gene Roddenberry got the notion…?